I throw the last of the clothes in the dryer and slam the lid with a solid thud. “Not when the last time he was happy, he was plotting a hostile takeover of half the paranormal world.”
“You wound me. It was at least three-quarters.”
“Remind me. How’d that work out for you again?” I ask as I empty out the lint trap and hit the start button.
“Pretty well, considering I’m sitting here tonight with a superhot gargoyle’s panties on my shoe.” He holds up his left foot and sure enough, my black lace panties are dangling from the toe of his merlot suede Armani loafers.
“How is that even possible?” I demand, leaning down to yank them from his foot. They come off, but when I look at my hand, there’s nothing there.
I mean, of course there isn’t. Just because I can see him sitting on that washing machine doesn’t mean he’s actually there. Any more than it means my panties were actually dangling from his shoe. Except I saw them.
“Abracadabra,” he answers, complete with full-on magician hand gestures. Which…
“Oh my God. Are you high?” I ask.
“I’m inside your head, Grace. If I were high, wouldn’t that mean you are, too?”
“Yeah, well, maybe I am,” I mutter as I gather up my laundry supplies, because I cannot think of another scenario on the planet where Hudson would behave in such a bizarre manner. The fact that the whole routine is just a teeny, tiny bit charming is also of paramount concern.
“Or maybe you’re just coming around,” he shoots back, his eyes shining a deep indigo in the bright lights of the laundry room.
“What exactly am I coming around to?” I ask. “Thinking you need a tranquilizer…or possibly seven?”
“More like the idea that all this doesn’t have to end as badly as you seem to think it will.”
I shoot him a baffled look. “I…don’t have a clue what that means.”
“Don’t you?” He watches me closely.
“Not even a little bit, no.”
For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything. Then, just when I think he’s going back to his normal, sarcastic ways, he lifts a hand and circles his index finger in a little loop that makes no sense to me at all—at least not until Flo Rida’s “Good Feeling” starts playing—out of nowhere.
“What. Is. Happening?” I look around the laundry room a little wildly, at least half of me wondering if I’m being punked. Because what even is happening? “Why are you playing Flo Rida?”
“Why not?” he answers, then grabs my wrist just as the refrain starts. Then, before I can register what’s going on, he gives one solid yank, and I fly straight into his hard chest, squawking like an angry pterodactyl the whole way.
“What the hell, Hudson?” I demand, shoving at his chest until he finally lets me put some distance between us. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Why does something have to be wrong?” he answers.
“Because we hate each other. And because happy music isn’t exactly your style. And because the last thing I want to do right now is hug you.”
This time, both brows go up, marking the return of the superior look I know and hate so well. “Who said anything about hugging?” he asks, right before he spins me out in what I can only assume is supposed to be some kind of dance move.
“Hudson,” I say, but he ignores me in favor of pulling me back in and then spinning me back out in the opposite direction.
“Hudson!” I repeat a little louder. “What are you doing?”
He gives me a “what the hell” look. “We are dancing.”
“No,” I correct him. “You are dancing. I’m beginning to feel a dislocated shoulder coming on.”
“And whose fault is that?” he asks. “Dance with me, Grace.”
“Why?”
“Because I asked you to.” He spins me out again, but this time the move is a lot gentler.
“But why did you ask me to?” I quiz when he pulls me back in. “What’s going on, Hudson?”
“Grace?” he says, looking deep into my eyes, and for the briefest moment, I see something there that makes me catch my breath. And also wonder if I’m imagining it.
“Yes?”
He circles his finger again, and the music switches from Flo Rida to the opening lyrics of Walk the Moon’s “Shut Up and Dance.”
And it’s so clever, so ridiculous, so Hudson, that I can’t help bursting into laughter. Right before I decide, screw it, and let him dance me from one end of the laundry room to the other.